I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Servilia stood frozen in place, her breath caught mid-inhale, her eyes wide with disbelief as they locked onto the figure perched atop the open roof of her grand atrium.

The man’s stark white hair shimmered like moonlight against the shadowed tiles of her estate. His presence was utterly surreal—like a statue come to life. He stood there, immobile yet full of latent energy, crimson eyes glinting faintly in the dim glow of the setting sun that spilled across the marble pillars. Those eyes… eyes that held no warmth, no anger, no joy—only a calm, calculating void. An expression so void of emotion that it unsettled even her, a woman raised amidst whispers and intrigues, trained to read the subtlest flicker on a senator’s face or the twitch of a general’s brow.

And then, recognition struck her like a thunderclap.

Septimius.

“Wh…What are you?” she gasped, her voice rising in disbelief, teetering on the edge of dread.

Her confusion began to curdle into fear, and with fear came the inevitable: suspicion. A bitter thought formed in her mind—sharp and dark.

Had Caesar sent this man?

Was this the moment she had always known might come?

The final move in Caesar’s long, calculated campaign to seize total control over the House of Junii?

And what better way to do it than through her son, Brutus?

Brutus—noble, brilliant, and tragically naïve. So thoroughly enraptured by Caesar’s charisma, he had become an eager pawn in the dictator’s game. And Servilia, the only barrier left, the only voice of reason still echoing in her son’s ears, was inconvenient. A threat.

Caesar never tolerated threats.

The memory of Pompey’s fate burned vivid in her mind—once a ruler of Rome, executed like a criminal. That had been Caesar’s judgment.

And now—was it her turn?

“No…” she whispered hoarsely, horror blooming across her face like frost spreading across glass.

Her knees buckled slightly as she staggered back, her hand groping blindly at the column behind her for support.

The white-haired man leapt down from the roof with a grace more befitting a feline predator than a man. His feet barely made a sound as they touched the polished marble tiles.

He advanced one step.

“Don’t come near me!” Servilia screamed, adrenaline surging through her veins. She grabbed a nearby vase—an heirloom from Parthia—and hurled it with all the force she could muster.

The object soared through the air, but the man tilted his head casually to the side. The vase shattered against the wall behind him in a shower of shards and dust, utterly ignored.

Servilia spun around and bolted.

Her sandals clacked against the stone as she fled through the colonnaded hallways of her estate—once a sanctuary of power and refinement, now reduced to a maze of dread and echoing footsteps. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her heart a drumbeat of panic in her chest.

She had dismissed the servants earlier that day. She thought herself clever—aware that many, if not all, had likely been bought by Caesar’s agents. Better to rid herself of ears and eyes that reported to someone else. But now, in her desperate flight, that decision felt damning. She was utterly alone.

No guards. No allies. No witnesses.

Only silence and the sound of her own feet on polished stone.

Brutus was not here, thank the gods. He was likely still in the Senate Castle—Caesar’s palace, that vulgar monument to ambition—but for once, Servilia was grateful. Her son’s absence meant safety… at least for now.

But her thoughts were spiraling.

She wasn’t afraid to die.

She had never feared death—not during Sulla’s reign, not during the Civil Wars, not even when she played the deadly game of lovers and power with Caesar himself.

What terrified her now, what truly unmoored her soul, was the thought of leaving Brutus behind.

Alone.

Alone and unprotected.

Alone beneath Caesar’s looming shadow.

If she died, there would be no one left to shield her son, no one to pull him back from the abyss of blind loyalty. Caesar would use Brutus—use him to control the House of Junii, to strengthen his grip on the Senate, and when Brutus outlived his usefulness, would he discard him as easily as he had discarded Pompey?

Yes.

She was certain of it.

And she could not, would not, let that happen.

Not while she still drew breath.

Of course, Servilia was no warrior.

She had never wielded a blade, nor trained her body to fight. Her weapons had always been words—sharp, veiled, and barbed—and her battlegrounds were senate halls and lavish feasts, where alliances were made with glances and enemies undone with whispers. But now, in this moment of breathless fear and urgency, her cunning could not save her. Only escape might.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she dashed through the corridor, the soft soles of her sandals slapping against the mosaic tiles. The hem of her silk stola tangled around her feet, flowing too long for flight. She stumbled once, then again—and then her footing gave out entirely. Her ankle twisted on the smooth marble floor, and she cried out as her body pitched forward.

She shut her eyes instinctively, bracing for the jarring crack of skull to stone.

But it never came.

Instead, warmth enveloped her.

A strong arm slid around her waist, steady and assured, catching her before she could fall. Her body was cradled, held close yet respectfully distant, suspended in a moment that stretched strangely long.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in confusion.

Nathan was there—his face mere inches from hers, those crimson eyes unreadable yet strangely calm.

Why…?

Why wasn’t she afraid anymore?

Why didn’t his presence, his touch, terrify her?

His arm was firm but careful, not forceful. His palm rested at her lower back, the touch devoid of lust or violence. It was the hand of someone who wanted to catch her—not harm her. And that made no sense at all.

“I am here to speak,” he said, his voice low and steady, barely above a whisper. “Don’t make any noise.”

His breath brushed her cheek, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Recovering from her daze, Servilia stiffened and pushed hard against his chest. He let her go immediately, releasing her without resistance, and she stumbled back several steps, wrapping her arms around herself instinctively.

“C–Caesar sent you… to kill me, didn’t he?” she spat out, her voice trembling.

Nathan’s expression didn’t change. “No. I came of my own accord. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“You… You expect me to believe that?” she hissed, fury and fear mixing within her like oil and flame. “You are his man! If you weren’t sent to kill me, then what? What does he want now?!”

“I told you already—he didn’t send me,” Nathan said, his tone even, unshaken. “I came to speak. Alone.”

Servilia shook her head violently, stepping further away.

“No… no, no. He wants something. He always does. He took my son from me—what more is left for him to take?! Does he think I’ll just be manipulated again?! That I’ll bow and smile while he rips apart my family!?”

Nathan said nothing.

He only took a step forward.

“Don’t come near me!” she warned, voice rising in panic. “I’ll scream! I swear I will!”

But in the blink of an eye, he was standing in front of her.

She gasped, stumbling back again—yet she found herself unable to raise her voice, to cry out. Her breath hitched, and she shut her eyes tightly, bracing once more for pain or violence.

Still—nothing.

No blow. No blade.

Only silence.

Tentatively, she opened her eyes. Nathan stood calmly before her, watching her closely. He leaned forward slightly, and in a voice both dangerous and soft, he said:

“I am not with Julius Caesar. I joined him to bring him down—from within.”

Her lips parted in disbelief.

What…?

Had she heard him right?

Bring Caesar down? From within? Was this some elaborate mockery?

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Nathan asked, the faintest smirk curving his lips. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was a predator’s smirk—arrogant, mocking, and yet… undeniably confident.

Servilia stared, lost in the madness of it all.

He couldn’t be joking. His tone was too cold, too measured. And worse—she believed him. Somehow, without proof, she believed him.

“You…” she murmured, shaken. “You’re serious…”

Nathan’s gaze narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly. “When I first heard of you, I thought you were just another vain woman clinging to Caesar’s shadow—useless, desperate, and blind. I even considered killing you at first.”

His voice was ice. Servilia flinched.

“But…” he continued, taking a step closer. “I changed my mind.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

“You’re far more interesting than I expected.”

A shiver raced down her spine at the sensation. His words were like silk and venom, sinking into her thoughts, coiling around her doubts.

His voice—there was something unnatural about it. Deep. Mesmeric. It wrapped around her reason and slowly pulled it under, like a tide slipping past the shore. She felt dizzy, enchanted.

The air itself seemed to pulse with the weight of his presence.

“Do you want Caesar’s downfall?” he asked softly, his tone both intimate and commanding.

She didn’t speak.

She simply nodded, slowly, almost against her will—but the desire was real. Raw. Ancient.

The thought of seeing Caesar fall had burned in her chest for so long, and now—here was someone offering it. Someone who might actually do it.

How could she resist?

Nathan stepped back at last, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

“Two days,” he said. “That’s all you’ll have to wait.”

“W–Wait for what?” Servilia called out, her voice cracking as it rose into the empty corridor, laced with confusion and unease. She took a hesitant step forward, as if trying to chase the vanishing figure with words alone.

But the shadows had already begun to swallow him.

Nathan turned his head only slightly, his profile lit faintly by the flicker of a nearby oil lamp, casting a halo of golden light across the sharp planes of his face. His crimson eyes glowed like dying embers in the darkness.

“You’ll understand when the time comes,” he said, his voice calm and detached, yet it carried the weight of certainty—of inevitability. “When it happens, when everything becomes clear… I’ll come to see you again.”

His words were like a prophecy, delivered not with hope, but with grim finality.

“Wait in the same place,” he added. “Until then… remain calm. Remain silent.”

And just like that, his form dissolved into the shadows—silent as a ghost, swift as a breath. One heartbeat he was there, the next… gone.

Leaving a shocked and strangely expectant Servilia.